F**K Dust

Growing up, I was a latch-key kid. I’d come home from school on weekdays, fool around*, watch a little of General Hospital, and then I’d warm up the food left for my me and my father. Too, on Saturdays both of my parents worked and my only responsibilities were to vacuum and dust. I hated dusting. Mainly because in the late 80’s/early 90’s my mother was a veritable chatchki queen. The reason being: during these years whenever anyone had a bridal shower they would give out some sort of ceramic figurine (usually of birds) as the favor. For some unknown reason my mother felt obligated to keep and display those cheap D&K pieces of junk. That is until my father got sick of them and forced asked her [not so] kindly to get rid of them by hoarding the into a box and sticking them into the abyss (also known as the shoe closet, or the photo album closet, or the small tool closet, or the scrap pieces of carpet closet, or the you-name-it-it’s-in-there-closet.)

I would always—and I mean always—wait until the last possible minute to actually complete this chore. There were way more important things to do, like, eat seven bowls of cereal while watching Saturday morning television which always included Saved by the Bell, talk to my cousin Pauline on my rainbow, see through Swatch phone, put on “Talent Shows for No One” using old vinyl records like the Grease soundtrack, Pink Floyd, or Donna Summer, or practice making out with “Zack Morris” on the back of my hand. Dusting and vacuuming could wait, dammit.

These days dusting and vacuuming is still a major thorn in my side. I can’t help that I’m busy and have a bazillion kids to school, a photography business to run, meals to cook along with shopping excursions to procure my weekly groceries, sweat producing exercises to partake in, writing assignments, and, yes, even a husband to please sexually. Who’s got time for dusting and vacuuming with all that shit? Not me, that’s for sure.

That’s not to say that there aren’t times when I don’t get all neurotic and clean the house from top to bottom. It’s just not happening on more than a bi-monthly basis. Quite frankly, if I didn’t have older kids to help me with chores I would probably be one of those stories on the news about the filthy house with decaying bodies and excrement on the walls. Yes, I’m exaggerating. Only a little. I mean, I have a life to live. And, life, in my opinion, is too short to worry about dust, and dog hair, and boogers, and fingernails. Oh come on, I know you have kids who pick and flick, too. Don’t even try to deny it!

In closing, I’ve got one thing to say:

Fuck. Dust.

*fooling around usually involved stealing cigarettes from my mom and talking on the phone about boys, and Madonna, and whatnot…

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